


I Would Wish This Scar

by cathalin



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Kinks, M/M, Scarification, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathalin/pseuds/cathalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many different types of scars. Charles is drawn to Erik's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Would Wish This Scar

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: non graphic references to offscreen past violence, plus offscreen past self harm.
> 
> Originally posted at my livejournal. See footer for link to original post.

~ ~ ~

He thinks the worst one is on his chest, a livid semi-circle a few inches above his right nipple. Even now, it hurts sometimes, a pulling that doesn’t quite register as pain.

Sometimes, for amusement, he considers whether the one low down on his back is worse. It’s much smaller, and it’s beautifully healed. But.

And then there’s his left thigh. That was... That one tore messily. It’s a testament to human healing that now, it just looks like a zipper that a tailor sewed in askew.

He could keep going, cataloguing the places his body is lumpy or purple or strangely puckered. But he won’t. He doesn’t let himself. No one has that much power over him.

Not any more.

~ ~ ~

It happens in none of the ways his mind had half-formed. There is no semi-conscious slide into each other, no sudden confession or awkward, cloaked invitation.

Instead, it’s Charles’s eyes, hot on the edge of the scar that runs down Erik’s right forearm. This damnable shirt doesn’t fit right, and he forgot, for a moment, not to reach up, lest the cuff ride up and--

Charles takes a step closer, eyes locked on Erik’s forearm.

Erik’s heart kicks up and he yanks his arm down, pulls up his shirtsleeve. “Don’t--” he starts, but Charles has reached out, grabbed his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, shoved the cuff up a few inches. Part of Erik recoils automatically, but even as that part of him wants to lash out, another part knows it’s Charles, knows it’s not... not _safe_ exactly, but. But allowed. Barely. “What are you doing?” he manages, voice harsh even to his own ears.

“I’m. I’m sorry for presuming, but it’s just that...” Charles raises his eyes to Erik’s. “You always cover them up, and I just think...” He looks away, color rising in his cheeks.

Erik doesn’t know what this is. He knows the usual reactions: horror, sympathy, disgust. This isn’t that. His arm shakes with his effort not to yank it out of Charles’s hand. “Are you quite done?” he finally says, lacing his voice with as much chill as he can muster.

“Oh, I.” Charles looks back at him, flustered, flush rising further up his cheekbones. His lips are rosy; his teeth are sunk in his lower lip. “I don’t. It’s not--”

As if he senses Erik’s flare of anger, because this is becoming insupportable, Charles takes a breath and runs the tips of his fingers over the edge of Erik’s scar, biting his lip even harder. Erik can feel the contrast: Charles’s fingertips are smooth, cool, on the unscarred skin, but on the scar... Erik’s breath catches in his throat.

Charles breathes out, an almost-gasp, takes a half-step closer so he’s virtually flush against Charles’s body. “They’re nothing you need to hide,” Charles murmurs.

“I’m not ashamed,” Erik says.

“No. No, and you shouldn’t be. But--”

Erik feels Charles’s mind on the edges of his, the feeling he’s come to call _knocking_ ; Charles seeking _permission_ , as if to disguise the fact that if he wished, he could strip Erik’s every thought, every memory.

Erik nods, and just like that, Charles is _there_ , gently, not rummaging around, just... there. Erik feels him do the telepathic equivalent of taking a big breath, and then, just like that, it’s there; _May I touch?_. It’s hesitant, tinged with something Erik thinks may be embarrassment, but... there. He nods again, apparently helpless against anything Charles would ask of him.

Charles touches the scar again, runs his fingers more surely up it, up under the cuff of Erik’s sleeve, works at the buttons of the cuff. Erik waits again for the usual reactions, but they aren’t there, none of them, in what he senses in Charles. Instead, there’s just...

Erik gasps and tries to pull away.

“Beautiful,” Charles says aloud, shoving the sleeve up to Erik’s elbow and sliding his hand up the jagged scar. “I--”

Erik sees the desire form in Charles’s mind, before Charles can lock it away. Before Charles can stop it.

Charles freezes, starts to withdraw his hand, looking down, away, anywhere but at Erik.

Erik’s free hand grabs at Charles’s almost before Erik knows he’s doing it, holds it in place. “No. Don’t stop. Don’t. Don’t be ashamed. Don’t ever; we are how we are made, it’s not--”

Charles looks up and their eyes lock. Charles’s eyes are misty. Or maybe that’s Erik’s, it’s hard to say. After a moment Charles nods, then smiles, just a tight curl of his lip.

Charles leans down and puts his mouth on Erik’s scar.

Erik’s knees go weak and he grasps at Charles’s shoulder to keep himself upright. He feels Charles’s lips curl in a smile on his arm -- a wicked smile, Erik is quite sure. And indeed, a moment later Erik feels it, the unmistakable touch of Charles’s tongue, laving the puckered skin of his scar, tracing it up, up, inch by excruciating inch.

At first Erik can only stare and try to keep his breathing in check, mesmerized by the sight of Charles’s lips touching his skin, the cool dart of his tongue. He’s frozen, unsure as always in these situations as to what he is expected to do: or rather, more unsure than ever, this being so far out of the realm of his normal experience. He’s not exactly had a lot of encounters anyway -- he tends to frighten people off -- and the experiences he’s had have been... well. They haven’t involved anything like this. He’s not even completely sure what Charles wants.

After a few moments Charles turns his head and looks up at Erik, cradling Erik’s arm against his cheek, just... resting his face against it. There’s a question in his eyes, Erik can tell that. He’s just not sure what it is.

Charles raises an eyebrow. “May I, then? More, that is? I...” He colors further, and Erik watches, fascinated, as the flush rises into his hairline. Something about it makes him realize he isn’t the only one here who is unsure. He nods.

Charles takes him by the hand, leads him into the bedroom, pushes him down to sit on the bed and in one fluid motion, kneels on the floor in front of him.

 _Kneels on the floor in front of him_.

Something short-circuits in Erik’s brain and he can only sit, watching, while Charles reaches up, pushes the shoulders of Erik’s jacket off, pulls it off by the sleeves one by one, loosens and then removes his tie, unbuttons Erik’s second cuff.

Charles has been methodical but gentle, gaze focused wherever he was working. Only now does he raise his eyes to Erik’s and reach carefully for the top button on his shirt. His hand lingers there for a moment as he once again seeks Erik’s eyes. Erik just watches, and after a moment Charles proceeds, unbuttoning the shirt slowly and carefully, not letting it gap open, full lower lip caught in his teeth.

Telegraphing his movements, Charles raises his hand to Erik’s chest when all the buttons are undone, lays it over fabric, rests it there. He looks at Erik and they both understand it the same way: _last chance_. Charles may make it a point of honor not to learn all the details of Erik’s past from his mind, but certainly he must know that Erik is not accustomed to lovers who accept his scars. Let alone want to see them.

It’s all impossible, really. This is the part where even the most intrepid has run, or at least found the quickest path to the night being over. Charles means well, but...

 _Charles_. Charles’s hand is shaking, trembling against Erik’s chest. He’s not removing it, though, not gathering his things and making a quick excuse and leaving. At least, not yet. Erik looks down at Charles, really _looks_ finally, feeling the faint shaking of Charles’s fingers against his shirt, the pad of his thumb just barely pushing over the edge of the seam onto flesh. He sees -- or Charles lets him see -- what has perhaps been right in front of him for a long time.

“I’ve wanted,” Charles whispers, then pushes the edges of Erik’s shirt apart, running his fingers lightly over the skin revealed there, then, bolder, further. Erik feels a draft on the ugly scar over his chest and shudders, but before he can do something -- shove Charles away, pull his shirt back closed, say something cutting -- Charles leans forward and is kissing it, starting at one end and moving his lips with its curve, a gentle, insistent pressure.

Something burns in Erik’s chest. Or perhaps lower still; it’s all confused. He feels something silky running through his fingers and stares when he sees: his hands have reached of their own volition to Charles’s head and are stroking his hair.

Erik closes his eyes tight against the sting. He’s not sure if it’s someone being tender with him or the fact he has it in himself to reciprocate, but...

“Ohhh,” Charles breathes, and then, _I felt that, that was--_ “Sorry,” Charles says out loud, “I don’t mean to, it just happened, I wouldn’t, not without you saying it was--”

Incongruously, Erik finds himself laughing. “After all we’ve shared, I hardly think this is the thing that crosses the line.”

Charles snorts against Erik’s chest and then they’re both laughing. Somehow Erik pulls Charles up and they fall back on the bed, arms wrapped around each other. It’s all ridiculous and undignified and about as far from anything Erik associates with sex as it’s possible to get.

Which is why it’s so shocking when everything turns on a dime; when one moment they are laughing crazily into each other’s chests and the very next they fall silent and the next...

The next, after the silence deepens and holds and their laughter dissolves away, Erik becomes aware of how close they are; how their hands curl around each other’s backs, how their legs are almost-intertwined. He feels the heat coming off Charles’s body, and his hand tightens reflexively in the material at the back of Charles’s shirt where it’s clenched.

Charles makes a small sound. Erik takes a breath in and smells Charles’s sweat, the slight musk of aftershave, breath that isn’t quite fresh.

Possibility wraps itself around them, stealing the breath from Erik’s lungs.

He should stop this. Or... take. But he’s helpless; he can’t move or think.

Erik senses Charles’s movement before it occurs; maybe it’s telepathy bleeding over, or perhaps it’s just being this close. Whatever it is, it ends with him flat on his back, Charles kneeling above him, hands hooked in the edges of Erik’s shirt and pulling it back, baring his whole torso.

He motions Erik to lift up just enough to get the shirt off him completely and Erik does, keeping his mind carefully blank even from himself. Once it’s off, though, he freezes. This is too--Too much. A person doesn't have to remove his clothes to get off -- his past is proof of that.

Erik reaches for the discarded shirt, pulls it back ineffectually over his chest.

“Erik,” Charles says, gentle, “Can I--May I show you?”

“You could show me anything and make believe it was true.” Erik’s voice comes out harsh.

“Theoretically true of course.” Charles smiles down at him, an errant lock falling into his eyes. Erik beats back the instinctive need to push it away so it doesn’t bother Charles. Charles turns serious; his voice is insistent. “Have I ever, though? Have I lied to you, showed you less than my true self?”

It’s so patently Charles, the sincerity, that Erik has no choice but to shake his head, then project as hard as he can, _Do it_. He can’t help but add, out loud, “You’ll do what you want anyway,” but he softens it with an attempt at a smile.

Instantly, images appear in Erik’s mind: Erik’s torso, burnished golden in the light from the single lamp, muscles standing out in shadow, alluring, scars their own deeper shadows, each a testament to character. And more: to the nearly unquenchable ability of the body -- and the mind and heart, Charles’s thoughts gently insist -- to heal. To fight back, to survive. To be human in the face of inhumanity.

There’s also--Erik swallows against his suddenly dry mouth --There’s also a haze of lust, of want, so strong it washes back on Erik, makes the skin on his chest taut with anticipation and need. It’s all bound up with Erik’s skin and muscles and the perfect curve of his lower back and the long strong length of his arms; it’s all of that, but it’s more, something that twists in Charles’s stomach like the knife that created many of these scars. It’s--

“Sick, I know,” Charles whispers into the shell of Erik’s ear; somehow his face is very close to Erik’s.

Erik shakes his head, because no, it’s not sick, though certainly it’s... different. Different, too, from the handful of people he’s encountered who did view his scars as a turn-on, but in a way that had nothing to do with Erik. This is somehow wrapped up not just in the flesh itself, but...

“In you,” Charles murmurs, kissing along the sharp edge of Erik’s jaw, down his arched neck, across his chest, tonguing each scar; each imprint of his lips a caress... or a brand.

Charles finally reaches the waistband of Erik’s pants and pauses, places his hand over Erik’s belt buckle; a silent question. Charles’s breathing is rapid; his hand trembles while he waits.

Erik reaches down blindly and undoes his belt, a silent offering, then covers his eyes with his forearm. He’s never been naked with anyone, not since...

“Did--Did he...?” Charles asks, infinitely gentle.

“No.” Erik shakes his head. “The one thing he never did. No.” He uncovers his eyes and meets Charles’s gaze.

Charles breathes out and presses his forehead to Erik’s thigh for a moment, then gets busy unzipping and removing Erik’s pants. Erik steels himself for the moment when Charles sees the scar on his thigh, but it turns out that Charles’s mouth, pressed on the joint of Erik’s hip, then working its way excruciatingly slowly down the vee of his thigh, is distraction enough that Erik forgets whatever he was concerned about. In fact, when it feels like Charles has tongued every inch of space _except_ the jagged cut, Erik is shivering with want. Just the thought of those lips, that tongue, moving just half an inch over, cataloging each ridge and puncture...

 _Yeah_ , Charles thinks, _See?_ , when he finally, _finally_ runs his tongue over the lowest edge of the vertical scar. Erik doesn’t respond in words, speechless, but Charles doesn’t wait, just licks and then _nips_ his way up the excruciatingly sensitive skin, each movement a bolt of heat to Erik’s belly.

“Charles,” Erik finally half-moans. “ _Charles_.” His voice comes out desperate.

Charles lifts his head; he’s made it to the top of the ragged scar, so his movement puts him just a few inches below Erik’s raging hard-on, straining against his briefs. Charles’s pupils are huge, eyes blown dark. He flicks his gaze down to Erik’s crotch and licks his lips.

 _Yes_.

But... “No.” Charles’s forehead creases like it does when he is sensing thoughts. “There’s more. First--” he seems to give up on words and pushes and pulls at Erik.

Erik balks when he figures it out; Charles wants him to roll over onto his stomach. Fear clenches in Erik’s chest at the thought, chased quickly by anger at the fear; he’d sworn he wouldn’t let Shaw govern his actions in any way ever again. But. What Charles is sensing isn’t just a scar.

Still... It’s Charles. That, in the end, is enough to get him to roll over, though his hands fist in the sheets and his back muscles clench.

“It’s this you hate most, then,” Charles says, unerringly finding it amongst all the others; the small dark area low down on Erik’s back, layered with different types of scars, one on top of the other. Charles lays his hand over it gently, leaves it there.

“I hate them all,” Erik grits out into the pillow.

“Yes, but..." _Tell me?_ Charles’s mental voice is gentle, careful. After a silence, he adds, “You don’t have to, I won’t--”

_“His initials,” Erik whispers. “He carved his initials. I... Later, I tried to obliterate the, shall we say, evidence. More than once.” He hardens his voice: he doesn’t want any fucking sympathy. Sympathy is too trivial for what this was._

_Charles freezes. “I see.”_

_Erik feels it then, an emotion, or rather, a thought, clearly coming from Charles. It’s a sharp, hot desire to do violence to the person who did this. Not a feeling he’s accustomed to in Charles._

_“Sorry, it can be hard to keep it in when it’s a very strong feeling.” Charles’s voice sounds choked._

_It’s somehow not as satisfying as he’d thought it would be, getting Charles to feel or think anything not infuriatingly... good. Despite himself, Erik finds himself saying, “Maybe you can kiss it and make it better after all.”_

_Charles gasps out a half-laugh, or at least something that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, and there’s that -- that feeling -- again, the sense of almost... fun? Companionship? Something._

_“Brace yourself,” Charles says, then leans down and does just that, kisses right on the whorls and ridges and indentations that no one but him has ever seen. Erik can tell Charles is trying to keep the mood light, but after a while Charles’s hands clench tight around the tops of Erik’s hips, and the kisses turn more purposeful, lingering._

_Erik is surprised to find himself almost relaxed, and eventually... not so relaxed any more, but for a different reason than before. Charles’s mouth is open on his skin now, tongue darting out from the scar and drawing a silky-wet trail along the top of Erik’s waistband, all the way over to the sensitive skin at his waist, then back. He keeps it up until Erik has to fight to stay still, to keep himself from outright begging. Until all he can think about is Charles’s mouth moving down, around, to his aching cock._

_“Do you want me to beg?” he finally asks, hoarse._

_Charles kisses up his spine and lies on top of Erik’s back, murmurs into his ear. “Never that, my friend.”_

_Of course Charles would understand how something like that would be horrific for Erik._

_“Unless you want to,” Charles adds, and Erik can hear the smile in his voice even as Erik’s cock throbs._

_“I don’t know what I want any more,” he confesses, turning over so Charles is lying on top of him. They both gasp as their bodies meet like this for the first time. Erik’s eyes are drawn to Charles’s red lips. Lips that have catalogued every hurt on his body and still part a little at Erik’s gaze, inviting._

_“There is one place I haven’t kissed you,” Charles says, and Erik can see his pulse fluttering in his neck._

_“Unpardonable,” Erik manages to whisper as he draws Charles’s head down to his._

_Their lips meet and it’s... _white heat passion intimacy ache_. He is drowning, drowning in Charles’s mouth, the feel of the muscles of his back, his thighs, under his hands..._

Charles still has his clothes on, but that’s --

It’s all a blur -- metal in the way, getting it out of the way. Charles gasps and Erik worries for a second -- did he hurt him?

“Not hurt,” Charles gasps. “Just...”

 _Turned on?_ Erik asks wickedly and Charles laughs, half-choked.

Clothes, shoved away. His own briefs are the last barrier and Charles pulls them off with his teeth. His fucking teeth.

They’re finally, _finally_ naked, and they’re kissing again and it’s like they aren’t even two people. Maybe they’re _not_ right now: Charles’s mind keeps opening to Erik, then shutting. _Sorry, sorry--I can’t. I’ve always been able to keep control, before, if I’ve--In bed.--But it’s too--Too much_.

Erik swallows. Can he?

He can: _Just let it_ , Erik thinks. “You shouldn’t have to--” he flips them so Charles is under him and they both groan into each other’s mouths. _You shouldn’t have to control it during this. The one time. You can relax. Just--_

_be in you while_

_while i’m in you?_ Erik sort-of asks, sort of _knows_.

 _yes_ Charles sends, emphatic, wrapping his legs around Erik’s hips.

The whole thing is so far out of Erik’s usual realm of experience he just kind of... gives up. Lets himself feel and do and react like he wants to, whatever it is. And it’s okay, because Charles does the same thing, let his control lapse, let his thoughts bleed into Erik; Erik can sense how helpless Charles feels against this.

So they kiss and rut against each other and then, when it’s time, Erik pushes in an oil-slicked finger, then quickly, another, because Charles is open and wanting, and after some unknown amount of time, Charles biting down hard on his lip to keep from coming right then and Erik doing the same, he’s pushing inside and it’s agonizingly good, _sweet hot aching tight filled_. Both of them are thinking of everything they want to do to each other, with each other --mouths, fingers, cocks-- until the blinding heat of this, just _this_ , overwhelms everything and--

 _yes, harder,_ clear in his head, so he does, lets himself fuck into Charles like he wants to; like the intensity of this feeling demands.

It builds and builds, powerful potential like the feeling right before metal shifts and bends to his whim, and then, when they tip over the edge, it’s like... like everything just... _stops_.

Like the world stops and its heartbeat flatlines for an aching space of time.

And then implodes, white-hot.

Erik thought Charles’s control was relaxed before, but this undoes him. Thousands, tens of thousands of _images/thoughts/sensations/memories/feelings_ flash all at once: it feels like all the love and pain and death and joy of the world. But of course, it’s not. It’s only a fraction. A tiny fraction of what Charles carries.

And then even those are gone and it’s all just their bodies, clenched together.

A moment.

Another.

A long space of time where it’s just... them.

Erik slides out, rolling to the side, and Charles comes with him; their hands clinging still to each other. Erik buries his face in Charles neck but Charles’s lips seek out the curving scar on Erik’s chest; the place this started. He presses his lips to it once and lingers, just... just breathing there, a silent balm.

Erik kisses the top of Charles’s head, wishing him another few moments of peace.

Some scars are visible, Erik reflects. Some... are not. Each of them carry more than their share. Perhaps...

Perhaps Erik is not the only one troubled by dark thoughts at night, by watching, helpless, while innocents are hurt. By being so alone.

Erik bundles Charles even closer in his arms. They will never agree on everything. He knows that. And there are dark places in his mind -- and actions he’s taken -- that no kisses will ever heal. That he doesn’t even want healed. But perhaps... perhaps they might find a way to share this. This responsibility that comes when you carry something like this on your body. Or on your mind.

He feels the bubbling joy well up in Charles and realizes they’re still so linked that Charles has read his feelings. Eric doesn’t need a mental link to read the expression on Charles’s face as he pulls back and smiles at him, a smile that lights up Charles’s eyes in a way that makes Erik’s chest ache. There’s something almost shy in the way Charles ducks his head and Erik has to laugh. “I repeat. After all of --” he gestures to convey everything they’ve shared “--all of that, this moment is when you get embarrassed?”

“Well.” Charles forces his eyes back to Erik’s. His cheeks are stained pink. “It’s just. Different when it’s bodies. It’s so... present.”

Erik swallows. He thinks of the scars littered over his body. That’s it, isn’t it? They’re etched in his skin. Right there. Unavoidable. Present.

Trying to avoid them hasn’t exactly done anything great for him.

 _Beautiful_ , Charles thinks, then flushes deeper.

Erik will never be able to think that about them, not exactly. But... Perhaps in time, new words can be written -- metaphorically; he’s not interested in anything else -- over those initials that cut so deep.

He strokes his fingers over the flush on Charles’s face, following it up his temple. He moves his hand into a parody of Charles’s telepathy gesture and thinks back at him, _Yours are beautiful, too_ , now strangely shy himself.

Charles’s eyes mist and Erik’s sting.

“It might take quite a while to fix my scars,” Charles says meaningfully, choked.

“And mine,” Erik says back, kissing Charles tenderly. “I can’t promise to agree with you. You know that.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Charles rests his forehead on Erik’s for a second, then pulls back and grins. “Just so long as I get to see you naked sometimes, I’ll be fine.”

That’s a sentiment Erik can approve of.

It ends up taking most of the morning to show Charles just how very much.

~ ~ The End ~ ~

**Author's Note:**

> Edited, cleaned-up version originally posted on my journal [HERE](http://cathalin.livejournal.com/171370.html).
> 
> Written for: this awesome prompt over at one of the kinkmemes [HERE](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/806.html?thread=368166#t368166). _Erik's obviously had a very painful life (understatement) and with all the things he's gone through he's bound to have more than a few scars to show for it. Basically what anon would like to see is first time (or first time fully unclothed) sex with Erik and Charles, where Erik is determined not to be ashamed because dammit he earned these, but he's still a bit nervous in spite of himself... and Charles just thinks he's gorgeous. Not in spite of the scars, but with the scars, in Charles' eyes the scars are as attractive a part of Erik as anything else, and Charles doesn't hesitate to prove this to him. Bonus if Erik's had bad experiences with past partners finding him less attractive because of his scars, so it's extra amazing that Charles thinks they just make him hotter._
> 
> Inspired by:
> 
> This beautiful poem I discovered in the process of thinking about writing this fic:
> 
> _I would meet you now  
>  and I would wish this scar  
> to have been given with  
> all the love  
> that never occurred between us._
> 
> _from The Time Around Scars by Michael Ondaatje_


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